Modern Romanticism

I see thee
Laid, to be scrawled in entering words
To my few empty pages.
I am but the scar that represents the lines,
As you are the ocean that leaves me blank.
I call moments
Apart,
To be left on the start,
The beginning of the page
Of every crease.

Your mind is my troublesome kind,
Lonely in your verse.
Your words
Come close, to be conversed
In the scents of a luscious form that leaks dew,
Streaming from your eyes, in the new
Wandering moments, of something distant.

I am broken
As the rhyme
Atop your glistening body
In the deathly heat,
Blasted by the sun.

Your grace
Wanders around your face,
While your bosom
Drives fire against fire,
Bleeding bountiful desire.

Something seems to never end
About the torn page,
Leaving me washed to the next stage
Of a very watery existence.
For I had sunk the white into a blue,
Not comprehending
Had I reached above or below.